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THE LOST CHRISTMAS 



AND OTHER POEMS 



By MAY RILEY SMITH 




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NEW YORK 
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

31 West Twenty-third Street 



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THE LiSRARY OF 

GC'iMGSESS, 
Two Copies Reoeived 

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COPVRIGMT ENTRY 

CLA«S Ct- XXa NO. 
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Copyright 

CRADLE AND ARMCHAIR 

By A. D. F. Randolph & Company, 1893 

THE LOST CHRISTMAS 

By May Riley Smith 

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MV MOTHER. 

The sweetest face in all the world to me. 
Set in a frajne of shining silver hair^ 

With eyes whose language is fidelity : 

This is my mother. Is she not most fair ? 

Ten little heads have found their sweetest rest 
upon the pillow of her loving breast : 

The world is wide ; yet ttowhere does it keep 
So safe a haven^ so secure a rest. 

"'TIS counted something great to be a queen ^ 
A fid bend a kingdom to a woman's will. 

To be a another such as mine, I ween. 
Is something better and more noble still. 



mother / in the changeful years now flown, 
Since, as a child, I leaned upon your knee, 

Life has not brought to 7ne, nor fortune shown, 
Such tender love 1 such yearning sympathy ! 

Let fortune smile or frown, whichever she will ; 
It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways ! 

1 never shall be quite bereft until 

I lose my mother^ s honest blam,e and praise I 



CONTENTS. 

♦ 

Page 

She came to Me 9 

The Baby over the Way ...... ii 

Four 14 

Elizabeth 17 

A Little Pillow 18 

" Lost — A Girl " 20 

My Baby's Mouth 22 

Nests 24 

The Child that belongs to Me ... 27 

In the Door 30 

Tired Mothers 32 

The Santa Claus Story 35 

Compensation 38 

Two Valentines 42 

Joe's Mercies 47 

My Little Boy 51 

What can I do? ss 

Who hath made Them to Differ - » - 57 

Papa's Birthday 60 



v"i Contents, 

Page 

The Lost Christmas 6i 

A Sweet Old Legend . 65 

Ploughed Under 68 

Waiting 70 

In Vanity Fair 73 

If ...... 77 

Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe .... 80 
In Memory of Mr. Crowley of Central 

Park 85 

Linings 88 

A Prayer 91 

A Little Cynic ......... 93 

Christmas Eve 98 

Jamie's Prayer loi 

Shocking 103 

The Scarecrow 106 

If We knew 108 

A Little Robber in 

" Suffer Little Children to come unto 

Me" 113 

" A Little Child shall lead Them " . 115 

Our Bobby was Pinching the Kitten . 120 

He knows best . 123 

Comfort 126 

A Subpcena 128 




SHE CAME TO ME. 

^OT with the rustle of strange 
wings, 
Not as an angel garmented ; 
No aureole shone round her head, 
She did not speak of heavenly things. 

She came and stood beside my knee, 

Leaning upon it as of old ; 

Until my sorrow, fold on fold, 
Like an old garment fell from me. 

The very frock she used to wear, 

The lace about her sweet, round wrist ; 
The warm moist hand that I had kissed ; 

The wayward trick of the bright hair. 



lo She Came to Me, 

That on her lifted forehead fell, — 
I saw it all in rapt surprise, 
As smiling upward with her eyes 

She said, " I 'm all well now — all well." 

O little queen, whose realm on earth 
In ruin lies ! leave not the road 
Between thy world and ours untrod ; 

Come sometimes back to the old hearth ! 

We will not bar the chamber door, 
To hinder thy departing feet : 
We know thou canst not tarry, Sweet, 

But come, O come to us once more 1 




THE BABY OVER THE WAY. 

CROSS in my neighbor's window, 
With its folds of satin and lace, 
I see, with its crown of ringlets, 
A baby's innocent face. 
The throng in the street look upward. 

And every one, grave or gay, 
Has a nod and a smile for the baby. 
In the mansion over the way. 

Just here in my cottage window. 

His chin in his dimpled hands, 
And a patch on his faded apron. 

The child that I live for stands. 
He has kept my heart from breaking 

For many a weary day ; 
And his face is as pure and handsome 

As the baby's over the way. 



12 The Baby over the Way. 

Sometimes, when we sit together, 

My grave little man of three, 
Sore vexes me with the question, 

** Does God up in Heaven like me? " 
And I say, " Yes, yes, my darling," 

Though I almost answer " Nay " : 
As I see the nursery candles. 

In the mansion over the way. 

And oft when I draw the stocking 

From his little tired feet. 
And loosen the clumsy garments 

From his limbs so round and sweet, 
I grow too bitter for singing. 

My heart too heavy to pray, 
As I think of the dainty raiment 

Of the baby over the way. 

Oh God in Heaven forgive me 
For all I have thought and said ! 

My envious heart is humbled : 
My neighbor's baby is dead ! 



The Baby over the Way. 13 

I saw the little white cofifin 
As they carried it out to-day, 

And the heart of a mother is breaking 
In the mansion over the way! 

The light is fair in my window, 

The flowers bloom at my door; 
My boy is chasing the sunbeams 

That dance on the cottage floor. 
The roses of health are crowning 

My darling's forehead to-day ; 
But the baby is gone from the window 

Of the mansion over the way ! 




FOUR. 

H, wind of the sweet May morning ! 
Tell me the rarest thing, 
The fittest for birthday token, 
That your rosy hands can bring. 
Oh, army of loving mothers. 

Lend me your counsel, pray. 
And tell me a gift for a darling 
Who is four years old to-day ! 

I have hunted the clover meadow 

And the blossoming orchards through 
For a bit of the robin's crimson, 

Or the jay-bird's dainty blue; 
But robin, at home with her babies, 

Was having a holiday. 
And when I made love to the blue-bird. 

She whistled and fluttered away. 



Four, 15 

And then I thought of the violet, 

Sweetest and best of them all, 
So I ran to catch the perfume 

That her purple cloak let fall ; 
But in vain did I try to gather 

What never a cup can hold, 
Though for every breath of fragrance 

You offer a world of gold. 

I searched in the highest grasses 

For an echo of mellow song 
That the thrush had left behind her 

As she merrily flitted along ; 
But she flew away to the alders 

And hid in her own brown nest, 
And crooned to the little thrushes 

That twittered under her breast. 

I sought for a gift uncommon. 

Oh, say, was I proud and wrong, 
To ask for the blue-bird's color, 

Or to seek to capture a song? 



1 6 Four, 

Was it like a covetous mother 

To try in her hand to bring 
An odor of purple violets, 

That sweet, intangible thing? 

But stay ! I have thought of a token ! 

Surely I was not wise ; 
Can you guess what gift I bring you. 

By the light that shines in my eyes? 
*T is your mother's love, my darling. 

And it knows no change, nor death, 
It is truer than blue-jay's color. 

And sweeter than violets' breath ! 

Though you may not grasp nor hold it 

In the palm of your small brown hand, 
Yet you can carry it with you 

When you go to the Better Land. 
Then, wind of the soft May morning, 

Have you any thing better to lay 
At the feet of a little darling 

Who is four years old to-day? 




ELIZABETH. 

CANNOT tell 
How it befell 
As you came sailing straight 
to me, 
That no sweet hail, 
Nor rustling sail 
Proclaimed my coming argosy. 

Yet every day 

Upon its way 
Your boat was speeding sure and fast ; 

Until my eyes 

With glad surprise 
Beheld and welcomed you at last. 

I cannot see 

How it could be 
I saw no signal from your hand ; 

Yet this I know, 

With happy glow, 
Your boat to-day is at my strand. 




A LITTLE PILLOW. 

TTTLE pillow, do you think, 

With your frills and bows of pink, 
You can faithful be and true, 
To the trust I give to you? 
In your laces, here and there, 
I have stitched a silent prayer 
For the little child, whose face 
Soon will give a needed grace 
To the work my hands have wrought 
With full many a tender thought. 

Underneath each knot of pink 
Hides a sleepy elf, I think, 
Who, with tricks so sly and wise, 
Fastens down the baby's eyes ; 
Wraps him round from brow to feet 
With a rest so soft and sweet. 



A Little Pillow. 19 

That he cries in grieved surprise, 
When he opens wide his eyes, 
Just because he cannot keep 
All the treasures of his sleep ! 

To each feather soft and white 

I have whispered dreams so light, 

That the baby's sleep will be 

Full of peace and purity. 

What though velvet cheek and lips. 

With their rosiness eclipse 

Every touch of puny skill, 

I have wrought with loving will? 

How could anything compare 

With a baby fresh and fair? 

How could God's work pure and fine ; 

Ever harmonize with mine? 

Little pillow do you think, 

With your frills and bows of pink 

You can faithful be and true 

To the trust I give to you? 




"LOST— A GIRL." 

H, say ! have you seen my Alice 
Anywhere on Life's street, 
Among the army of children 
Everywhere that you meet? 
Her hair was in yellow tangles, 

There were prints of sweets on her face, 
She spoke in a broken language, 
And lisped with a child's rare grace. 

Has nobody seen this hoyden, 

This queer little girl in blue, 
With a rent in her wee white apron 

And a gap in each scarlet shoe? 
Her shoe-strings were always dangling, 

And her stockings sure to be 
Loosed and showing the dimples 

Set in each rosy knee. 



''Lost — A Girl," 21 

If angels had stolen our Alice 

Away from her life of play; 
If under a cover of daisies 

We had hidden our girl away; 
If I could know she had wandered 

The Heavenly gateway through, 
I should think some day to find her, 

My little daughter in blue. 

The birds have learned to answer 

When her name I sadly call, 
But the voice of my little truant 

Is silent, in room and hall. 
I see a beautiful woma7i 

With my grandchild at her knee, 
But my little heedless Alice 

Will never come back to me ! 




MY BABY'S MOUTH. 

HE had not compassed much of 
human speech 
With that small mouth, like two 
rose-petals curled ; 
But the short octave that her tongue could 
reach, 
Out-sweetened all the music in the world. 

Yet when my child was with me every day, 

I wore her heedlessly upon my breast, — 

My tender flower ! — It is our human 

way; 

We mothers are too thoughtless at the 

best. 

For had some angel stooped from heaven 
to touch 
With that same tenderness my brow 
• and hair, 



My Baby's Motif h, 23 

I should have thrilled and trembled over- 
much, 
And set some consecrated signet there. 

I seal it now, God and the angels know ! 
And on the strength of every slighted 
kiss 
I will drink humbly my full cup of woe, 
Nor grudge the price for my neglected 
bliss. 

world, you nothing hold that I regret : 

I covet neither honors, wealth, nor place ; 

1 want my baby's mouth all sweet and 

wet, 
Rubbing its dew against my lonely face ! 




NESTS. 

KNOW where meadow-grasses 
rank and high 
A cradle cover, 
Because two bobolinks with tell-tale cry 
Above them hover. 

Some mullein leaves beside my garden 
wall 

Grow unmolested ; 
And under their pale velvet parasol 

Sparrows have nested. 

An oriole toiled on from day to day — 
The cunning weaver ! — 

Tying her hammock to that leafy spray 
Above the river. 



Nests, 25 

No wingless thief can climb that elm's frail 
stair ; 

Nor guest unbidden 
Can reach the snug, aerial chamber where 

Her eggs are hidden. 

A marsh-wren's cunning hermitage I see, 

As my boat passes, 
Moored to the green stems oi 2i fleur-de-lis 

With strong sea grasses. 

And stay ! I know another pretty nest 

Of braided willow. 
With dainty lace, and knots of ribbon 
drest, 

And feather pillow. 

And just one bird, with moist and downy 
head, 
Herein reposes ; 
He has no wings, — his shoulders grow 
instead 
Dimples and roses ! 



2 6 Nests. 

You have a nest and little wingless bird 
At your house, may be; 

Of course you know without another 
word 
I mean — a baby ! 




THE CHILD THAT BELONGS TO ME. 

O pure is my child, that I dare to 
say 
His Maker would not despise 
To color the sky on some rare June day 
From the blue in his handsome eyes ; 
And I am as proud as mother can be 
Of this beautiful boy that belongs to me ! 

Sometimes when we walk where the lily 
blows, 
She frowns with a sullen grace ; 
The gentle violet jealous grows 

When my little one breathes in her 
face ; 
And even the rose bends courteously 
To the beautiful boy that belongs to me. 



28 The Child that belongs to Me, 

His voice is as clear and sweet as the bell 

That swings in the robin's throat; 
I have asked him oft, but he cannot tell 

Wherever he caught its note ; 
And where is the bird more happy and 

free 
Than the beautiful boy that belongs to 
me ! 

Whenever I go to the market-place 

I carry him proud and high, 
That all may catch a glimpse of his face 

Before we have passed them by ; 
So eager am I that the world shall see 
This beautiful boy that belongs to me ! 

They tell me the world is a dreary place, 

And heavily sown with tears ; 
But when I look in my child's dear face, 

My heart is too glad for fears ; 
And all I can give seems a worthless fee 
For the beautiful boy that belongs to me. 



The Child that belongs to Me. 29 

Nor will I burden my days with sighs, 
Lest God for my child should send ; 

For whether he lives or whether he dies, 
He is mine till Eternity's end. 

And I fear no harm to my child or me, 

Since both, O Father, belong to Thee ! 




IN THE DOOR. 

L^^|OR forty years this old gray 
sentinel 
Has braved the tempest and the 
driving rain ; 
For forty years its rusty hinge has creaked 
To let the sunshine in and out again. 

The little hands that reached to clasp the 
latch 
Are clean enough to-day, the angels 
know; 
For they were emptied of the toys of life, 
And folded passively long years ago. 

I brush away the cobwebs and the dust, 
And sit me down upon the sunken sill ; 

And through the gate and up the garden 
walk, 
I seem to see my children trooping still. 



In the Door. 31 

Their merry voices cheer my lonesome 
ear; 
Their little garments brush me as they 
pass ; 
And all along the path their feet have 
come 
A trail of sunshine parts the bended 
grass. 

I am no longer tired, worn, and gray ; 

My children cling about me as of yore ; 
And with their hands clasped tightly in 
my own, 
We watch the sunset from the open 
door. 




TIRED MOTHERS. 

LITTLE elbow leans upon your 

knee, 
Your tired knee, that has so 
much to bear; 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of shining 
hair: 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours 
so tight, 
You do not prize this blessing overmuch — = 
You almost are too tired to pray, 
to-night ! 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
I did not see it as I do to-day. 

We are so dull and thankless ; and too 
slow 
To catch the sunshine e'er it slips away. 



Tired Mothers. 33 

\nd now it seems surpassing strange to me, 
That while I wore the badge of mother- 
hood, 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only 
good ! 

And if some night when you sit down to 
rest, 
You miss this elbow from your tired 
knee ; 
This restless, curling head from ofif your 
breast. 
This lisping tongue that chatters 
constantly ; 
If from your own the dimpled hand had 
slipped, 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm 
again ; 
If the white feet into their grave had 
tripped, 
I could not blame you for your heart- 
ache then ! 

3 



34 Tired Mothers. 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At little children, clinging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are 
wet, 
Are ever black enough to make them 
frown ! 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor; 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear its music in my home once 
more; 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day. 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
There is no woman in God's world could 
say 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest is flown : 

The little boy I used to kiss is dead ! 




THE SANTA CLAUS STORY. 

lOW sweet it all was! The red 
firelight, 
The cat purring soft on the rug, 
The wife flitting backwards and forwards. 

The egg-nog afoam in the mug. 
And when I looked up at the starlight. 

And down at this picture so fair, 
I just dropped my head, and in silence 
Gave thanks to the Giver right there. 

The parson came in, and we told him 

How happy our boy Fritzy was, 
A-hanging his little gray stocking, 

And prattling about Santa Claus. 
And how Alice said as she kissed me, 

A-reaching my neck on tip-toe : 
"I touldn't hold any more dladness, 

Dear papa, unless I should drow." 



36 The Santa Claus Story, 

But the parson sat gloomy and solemn, 

And wife looked just ready to cry 
When he said, **Is it right, my good 
brother, 

To tell them that old-fashioned lie? 
You can't expect roses and lilies 

In a garden where thistles are sown, 
Nor truth from the lips of your children. 

If you let falsehood blacken your 
own." 

Then he said '' Merry Christmas," and 
left us. 
That dazed, and so kind of unstrung. 
That we stared at those little gray 
stockings. 
Till the bells in the church steeple 
rung. 
And their chimes took me back to my 
mother. 
And I stood a wee chap at her knee, 
And heard the same Santa Claus story 
That Alice and Fritz have, from me. 



The Santa Claus Story. 37 

And if the Lord reckons it sinful 
I hope He will punish it light: 

Just think what a world full of sinners 
Have told that old story to-night ! 



COMPENSATION. 




HE folded up the worn and 
mended frock 
And smoothed it tenderly upon 
her knee, 
Then through the soft web of a wee red 
sock 
She wove the bright wool, musing 
thoughtfully, 
** Can this be all ? The great world is so fair, 
I hunger for its green and pleasant ways ; 
A cripple prisoned in her restless chair, 
Looks from her window with a wistful 
gaze. 

"The fruits I cannot reach are red and 
sweet, 
The paths forbidden are both green and 
wide; 



Compensation, 39 

O God ! there is no boon to helpless feet 

So altogether sweet as paths denied. 
Home is most fair: bright are my 
household fires, 
And children are a gift without alloy : 
But who would bound the field of her 
desires 
By the prim hedges of mere fireside 
joy? 

" I can but weave a faint thread to and 
fro, 
Making a frail woof in a baby's sock; 
Into the world's sweet tumult I would go, 
At its strong gates my trembling hand 
would knock." 
Just then the children came, the father 
too. 
Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom, 
" Dear heart," he whispered, as he nearer 
drew, 
" How sweet it is within this little 
room! 



40 Compensation, 

*' God puts my strongest comfort here to 
draw 
When thirst is great, and common wells 
are dry. 
Your pure desire is my unerring law ; 

Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I? 
Home is the pasture where my soul may 
feed, 
This room a paradise has grown to be, 
And only where these patient feet shall 
lead 
Can it be home for these dear ones and 
me. 

He touched with reverent hand the 
helpless feet, 
The children crowded close and kissed 
her hair. 
" Our mother is so good, and kind, and 
sweet, 
There 's not another like her anywhere ! " 
The baby in her low bed opened wide 
The soft blue flowers of her timid eyes, 



Compensation. 41 

And viewed the group about the cradle 
side 
With smiles of glad and innocent 
surprise. 

The mother drew the baby to her breast 
And smiling said : *^ The stars shine 
soft to-night; 

My world is fair; its hedges, too, are best 
And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is right." 




TWO VALENTINES. 

]NE was the loveliest thing ! A 
pink sachet 
Trimmed with soft ribbons and 
point applique, 
While heliotropes upon their rosy field 
The daintiest of perfumes seemed to 
yield. 

Tom thought it just the thing, and then he 

knew 
The nicest girl in town would think so 

too; 
And, best of all, within the folds was laid 
This valentine to please the little maid : 

** What is daintier, can you tell, 
Than the lichen groves where the fairies 
dwell? 



Two Valentines. 43 

What is a still more delicate thing 

Than the silken stuff of a butterfly's 

wing? 
What has a lining do you think 
As fair as the mushroom's fluted pink? 

"Are you so dull? Why, the rarest 

thing 
Is the heart of the girl whose praise I 
sing ! " 

This he addressed to Miss Maude Alice 

Browne. 
Another — how I blush to write it down — 
He sent in spite to poor lame Meg 

McCray, 
Who won the prize in algebra that day. 

*' There is a young person I know, 
Whose shoes are all out at the toe ; 

She has very large feet. 

Her gown is not neat, 
And her petticoats hang down below. 



44 Two Valentines, 

" I maf ride a broom to the sky, 
A snow-storm may fall in July, 
And my slatternly friend 
Her habits maj/ mend ; 
But do you believe it? Not I." 



But can you tell me how it came about 
That Miss Maude Alice Browne, with 

laugh and shout, 
Received Meg's valentine? And, strange 

to tell, 
Miss Meg McCray received Miss Browne's 

as well. 

' O Tom ! " Meg cried with innocent, 
round eyes, 

'* I 've had the dearest kind of a sur- 
prise ! 

Now who could love a poor, lame girl 
like me 

Enough to send this valentine? Just 
see ! 



Two Valentines. 45 

" If I were rich like Miss Maude Alice 

Browne, 
And pretty, too — Why, Tom, what makes 

you frown ? — 
It could not be so sweet to me, you know, 
To feel that some kind person loves me 

so. 

" But now whenever things seem hard to 

bear, 
I think it will be easier not to care, 
And being lame will not seem quite so 

bad, 
The thought that some one cares makes 

me so glad. 

Tom looked perplexed. What could the 

fellow do 
But say, " Well, Meg, I 'm just as glad as 

you ! " 
And so he was: the jealous fiend had 

flown 
And in his eyes a true repentance shone. 



46 Two Valentines, 

And Miss Maude Alice Browne cried with 
a laugh, 

** Some one has sent me my own photo- 
graph ! 

Well it 's a joke, and here 's the best of it, 

It does n't hurt because it does n't hit ! " 

That night Tom's sister touched him on 

the knee : 
*' I say, dear Tom," she said mischievously, 
*' I wonder if the Lord will credit you 
With what you did^ or what you meant to 

do." 



JOE'S MERCIES. 

Well, I 've been counting my mercies, 
As my grandmother would say, 

And I have n't got many to brag of, 
If it is Thanksgiving Day. 

There 's mother, of course, and the baby, 
They 're down in big letters, you know. 

But between you and me, the remainder 
Don't make an exceeding long row. 

For grandma is very uncertain, 
And likely as not, before long. 

To quietly slip off and leave us — 
She is seventy, and not very strong. 

And I would n't give a brass button 
For a palace, no matter how fine. 

That has n't a grandmother in it 
That looks pretty nearly like mine. 



48 Joe's Mercies. 

And then, you will own, It 's a trial, 

To be so exceedingly poor; 
It takes just a few extra mercies 

To make up for that, I am sure. 

To-day, we '11 have beef and rice pudding, 
Thanksgiving at that. What a feast ! 

One ought to expect a plump turkey 
And cranberry sauce, at least. 

And you can't guess how lonesome it is 
Jack, 

For a shaver no bigger than I, 
To manage without any father. 

And I hope that you won't have to try. 

And the more I try to be thankful 
And think of my blessings and such ; 

The more it appears, on that subject, 
What I have to say is not much. 

And as for the weather — it 's horrid ! 

Just look at the frost on the glass ! 
Why, I could n't catch sight of a circus 

If one should happen to pass. 



Joe's Mercies. 49 

Say, Jacky just come to the window; 

What is it on Benny Bright's door? 
It 's a strip of white crape and a ribbon ! 

O Jack, had you seen it before ? 

And there goes a little white coffin 
And flowers. Yes, Jack, now I see ! 

It is Ben's little rosy-faced brother, 
Who always threw kisses at me. 

Oh, I am the worst of boys, Jacky, 
Don't any one dare tell me " No," 

I tell you I '11 whip the first fellow 
That offers to say it ain't so. 

But, Jack, it never once struck me 
Till I saw that small coffin, to-day, 

How much a little round baby, 

Like the one at our house, can weigh 

But I say, if in counting his mercies 

A boy is inclined to be slow, 
A hearse at the door of his neighbor 

Will quicken his senses, I know. 
4 



50 Joe's Mercies, 

At any rate that 's my opinion ; 

And I think, if the Lord does n't care, 
I '11 reckon my mercies all over ; 

For, Jacky, I didn't count fair. 




MY LITTLE BOY. 

HE old square clock had struck 
the hour of eight. 
Outside the starry lamps were 
shining high, 
The silver moon in regal splendor sate 

In the blue glory of the Christmas sky, 
And tired workers toiling homeward late 
Hummed Christmas carols as they 
plodded by. 

My little boy was standing by my chair, 
One small white foot was bare upon the 
floor; 
His shining eyes beheld a world all fair; 
His face was eloquent with hopes in 
store, 
For hanging in the chimney corner there 
Was the small fleecy sock my darling 
wore. 



52 My Little Boy, 

He had been telling me in eager speech 
Of all the treasures Santa Claus would 
bring; 
There were no bounds his sweet faith 
could not reach, 
His trust was simple and unquestion- 
ing, 
While I had learned the whole that life 
could teach 
Of bitter doubt and cruel suffering ! 

I listened to him with a wistful prayer, 
I longed to make some helpful faith my 
own; 
That into my poor life of grief and 
care 
Might creep a truer grace than it had 
known — 
Some blessed trust that would not prove a 
snare. 
Some love more honest than the world 
had shown. 



My Little Boy, 53 

And then I said, " The Christmas is to me 
. More sad, my boy, than you can 

understand ; 
It brings me gifts of pain and treachery, 
And deals them through a loved and 
trusted hand. 
It brings a broken truth my staff to be, 
And leaves me nothing that will hold or 
stand ! 

My blessed child broke in upon my woe, 

Half loving, half reproachfully he said, 
''You still have something left; there's 
me, you know ! 
Why, one might think your little boy 
was dead ! 
I 'm little now, but when I larger grow 
I will take care of you, mamma," he 
said. 

I caught him with a passionate surprise ; 
I covered him with kisses burning 
sweet ! 



54 My Little Boy, 

My life grew richer, looking in his eyes, 
Though other loves were poor and 
incomplete ; 
And praying God to make him good and 
wise, 
I tucked the cover soft about his feet. 



WHAT CAN I DO? 



HAT can I do, O heavy heart 
within, 
That shall atone 
For this most sacrilegious sin 
That I have done? 




For when my soul would seek the King 
alone 

A round bright head 
Lifts up its aureole before the throne 

And shines instead. 



Nor gates of pearl, nor walls of amethyst 

That flash and glow, 
Have grace and color like the eyes I 
kissed 

A year ago. 



5 6 What can I do 7 

And Christ forgive me ! All the bliss and 
balm 

Of that rare land 
Are held, for me, within the slender palm 

Of one small hand ! 

One day my soul may climb on holier 
round 
To Heaven's fair place : 
But now, ah me ! my fierce desire is 
bound 
By one sweet face. 




WHO HATH MADE THEM TO DIFFER. 

HO hath made them to differ — 
Your Httle child and mine? 
Each with a face Hke the flower, 
Each with the stamp divine ! 
Who hath made them to differ — 
The lamb in the sheltering fold, 
And the waif with never a pasture, 
Bleating for hunger and cold? 

Is it God that wrought the evil? 
Does He fashion the tender flower 
Only to trample its chalice 
Under the tread of His power? 
Is it God, the Father of Mercies, 
The Blameless, the Undefiled, 
Who hath wrought this pitiful evil 
In the life of a Httle child? 



58 JVho hath made Them to differ. 

Hath He erred somehow Hke a mortal, 
That the children cry for bread? 
Is it God hath failed in His weaving 
And twisted and soiled the thread? 
Nay, nay, He is just, and our Father, 
He cannot beget a wrong ! 
We clash the keys of His organ 
And then blame Him for the song. 

We thrust our hands in His purpose. 
And tangle them in His wheel. 
And then cry out like children, 
For the hurt we needs must feel. 
We shatter our cup of blessing, 
Its portion we waste or spill. 
And then complain and wonder 
That the poor are hungry still. 

When wast Thou sick, O Saviour ! 
And I ministered not to Thee? 
*' If thou didst it not to my brother 
Thou didst it not unto me." 



IVho hath made Them to differ > 59 

Then haste while the pool is troubled ! 
Haste in the name of Him ! 
And lift with the clasp of a mother 
Some sufferer over the brim ! 




PAPA'S BIRTHDAY. 

HAT is a birthday, papa? 

Is it something nice for you? 
Are they good for little fellows? 
And can / have one, too? 
This world is full of puzzles 

To bother boys about; 
But it 's a pretty hard one 
My papa can't make out. 

Mamma says love is fairest 

Of all the gifts we bring ; 
A very great deal sweeter 

Than any other thing. 
Then, if there 's nothing better, 

And mamma tells me true, 
Oh, take it for your birthday 

From your little boy to you ! 




THE LOST CHRISTMAS. 

" Seek ye first the King^ 

HE Russian peasants tell to-day 

A legend old and dear to them, 
^ How, when the wise men went 
their way 
To find the Babe at Bethlehem, 



They paused to let their camels rest 
Beside a peasant's lowly door; 

And all intent upon their quest 

They talked their sacred errand o'er. 

" Come with us," said the eager three ; 

*' Come, seek with us the heavenly Child ; 
What prouder honor can there be 

For mortals, sinful and defiled? 



62 The Lost Christmas. 

'' And bid each child in Sunday clothes 
Bring of his treasures the most rare, 

Bundles of myrrh and whitest doves, 
With ointment for the Christ- Kin| 
hair. 

" Who knows what blessing may befall 
If they but touch His garment's hem ? 

And only once for them and all 

Will Christ be born at Bethlehem ! " 



" Alas ! My task must first be done," 
The mother answered with a sigh ; 

*' But I would see the holy one. 
And I will follow by and by." 

The wise men frowned and onward went. 
Leaving the children all aglow. 

And pleading till the day was spent, 

" When may we go ? When may we 
go?" 



The Lost Christmas. 6^ 

And while their cheeks flushed rosy red, 
They shouted in a chorus sweet : 

"And may we touch His pretty head? 
And may we kiss His blessed feet?" 

But women still will brew and bake, 
No matter what sweet honors wait ; 

And petty tasks they undertake, 
Though angels tarry at the gate ! 

And when all things were in their place, 
And every child was neat and trim ; 

When each tear-stained and tired face 
Was bathed and tied its hood within ; 

The sky was purpling in the west. 
The silent night was hurrying on ; 

The three wise men had onward pressed, 
The star from out the east had gone ! 

What could the foolish mother do? 

She turned her footsteps home again ; 
And never, all her sad life through. 

Did she behold the three wise men. 



64 The Lost Christmas, 

And thus through weak delaying she 
Her sweetest privilege had missed ; 

Nor ever did her children see 

The Holy Babe they might have kissed. 




A SWEET OLD LEGEND. 

FIRING that low footstool from the 
corner, Ted ; 
Mary and Jack you cannot crowd 
too near; 
While baby Bess will curl her pretty 
head 
Against my heart, that holds you all so 
dear. 

Now for the legend. Once, long years 
ago, 
When in our world the blessed Lord 
was seen, 
He walked one evening, tired, sad, and 
slow. 
With His disciples through the meadows 
green. 

5 



66 A Sweet Old Legend, 

Why was He sad? Dear child, I cannot 
say 
What burdens pressed upon His heart 
divine — 
Perhaps none had beheved on Him that 
day; 
Perhaps He thought upon your sins 
and mine. 

Along the way the sweet field lilies grew 

In rich apparel, finer than a king's ; 
Above His head the twittering sparrows 
flew — 
(He drew His sermons from these 
simple things). 

Now as they walked on holy thoughts 
intent, 
Upon the path a poor dead dog they 
spied : 
One spurned him with his foot as on he 
went, 
And "What an ugly beast," another cried. 



A Sweet Old Legend* 67 

But in their Master's eyes compassion 
shone; 
He stooped and touched the creature's 
shaggy head, 
*• At least, my dear disciples, you will own 
His teeth are white as pearls," He 
gently said. 

Then they passed on. Dears, is it strange 
to you 
That mothers with their babies round 
Him pressed? 
That Peter learned to be so good and 
true, 
And John leaned close upon His loving 
breast? 



PLOUGHED UNDER. 




T grieves me much, the homes 
that I have spoiled, 
Of nest and burrow; 
As in my barley-field to-day I toiled, 
Ploughing the furrow. 

Armies of ants that grain by grain had 
laid 
Their snug embankment, 
Were overwhelmed by my unhappy 
raid — - 
Fort and encampment. 

The silver ropes a cunning gymnast spun 

Met such disaster 
That a wise fly who watched the spider 
run, 

Buzzed out with laughter ! 



Ploughed Under. 69 

Beneath a roof, where dandelion stars 

The rafters gilded, 
Secured by no distrustful bolts or bars, 

Some birds had builded. 

I peeped within, despite a sentry bold 

Of doughty metal. 
Whose stinging impudence I knew of 
old — 

His name was Nettle ! 

It was not his rude protest made me spare 

My sparrow tenants ; 
I vanquished him, but left still fluttering 
there 

The flower pennants. 

And oh ! I grieve that I who hate to 
roam 
From my own burrow. 
Have turned blind little moles out of their 
home 
Beneath my furrow! 




WAITING. 

HEN the crickets chirp in the 
evening 
And the stars flash out in the 
sky, 
Lonely I sit in my doorway 

And watch the children go by ; 
I look at their fresh young faces, 
And hark to each merry word. 
For to me a child's own language 
Is the sweetest ever heard. 

I sit in my lonely doorway 

In the hour that I love the best, 
And think, as I see them passing, 

My child will come with the rest ; 
Think, as I hear the clicking 

Of the little garden gate, 
My darling's hand is upon it — 

Oh, why has she come so late? 



Waiting, 71 

But the days have been slowly weaving 

Their warp of toil in my life ; 
The weeks have brought me their burden 

Of waiting and patience and strife; 
The flowers that came with the sunshine 

Have finished their errand so sweet, 
And Autumn is dropping her harvests 

Mellow and ripe at my feet. 

And yet my little girl comes not, 

So I think she has missed her way, 
And strayed from this cold, dark country 

To one of perpetual day. 
Perhaps. But I long to enfold her. 

To tangle my hand in her hair, 
To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, 

To hear her light foot on the stair. 

Some day I am sure I shall find her. 
But the road is lonesome between, 

My spirit grows sick and impatient 
For glimpses of pastures so green ; 



72 Waiting, 

Waiting I sit in the doorway, 
In the hour my heart loves best, 

And think, when the children pass home- 
ward. 
My child will come with the rest. 




IN VANITY FAIR. 

RANDMOTHER sits in the cor- 
ner there 
Watching the comers to Vanity 
Fair, 
For Madame, her daughter, " receives " 

to-day, 
And a throng of carriages bars the way ; 
While color and perfume, and rare waltz- 
note 
In my lady's corridors blend and float. 

Yes, grandmother calls it " Vanity Fair," 
As she views the scene from her cushioned 

chair; 
With a curious shadow of grave surprise 
Troubling the depths of her fine old eyes 
At the shimmering robes, the laces fine, 
And the splendid jewels that flash and 

shine. 



74 In Vanity Fair. 

As she watches her daughter debonnaire^ 
Greeting the guests to Vanity Fair, 
Does she not look like a picture old, 
With her stiff brocade, and her kerchiefs 

fold? 
Or a somewhat prim, old-fashioned flower 
In the hot-house air of my lady's bower? 

Standing under the candles' flare. 
In the tinted light of Vanity Fair, 
Is her granddaughter, with eyes so blue 
That a pair of stars mistook their hue 
For the larger heavens and softly hid 
Behind the cloud of each snowy lid ! 

And grandmother sighs with a troubled air 
"They will spoil you, dear, in Vanity 

Fair; 
They will brush the dew from your youth, 

I know, 
And I trust not fully the handsome beau 
Who bent to your hand with so fine a bow 
And gave you the crimson rose but now? '* 



In Vanity Fair, 75 

And she mutters, " Poor little fly, take care 
Of the webs they weave in Vanity Fair ! " 
And no philosopher in the land 
Could make this grandmother understand 
That Vanity Fair, with its tricks and ways. 
Was much the same in her younger days. 

Grandmother, brooding on days that were, 
You are out of place in Vanity Fair ! 
As a sweet old psalm is out of chime 
With a prancing tune, or a laughing 

rhyme ; 
You are out of place in this modern room 
With its garish light, and its rich perfume. 

Let us wheel you out of the aching glare 
From the lights and sounds of Vanity 

Fair; 
Up the stairs to the restful gloom 
Of your own old-fashioned, quiet room. 
Where the same clock ticks the hours 

away 
That wakened you on your wedding-day. 



76 In Vanity Fair, 

Let us leave all schemes that vex and 

snare 
To the belles and beaux of Vanity Fair. 
You have had your day; now your night 

is near, 
Let us come away to your chamber here, 
Where peaceful slumber your eyes invite, 
Turn the light low; sleep well; good- 
night ! 



IF. 




F, sitting with this little worn-out 
shoe 
And scarlet stocking lying on 
my knee, 
I knew the careless feet had pattered 
through 
The pearl - set gates that lie ' twixt 
Heaven and me, 
And I could see beyond the mists of blue 
God's tender hand, I could submissive 
be. 

If, in the morning, when the song of birds 
Reminds me of a music far more sweet, 

I listen for his pretty broken words 
And for the music of his dimpled feet, 

I could be almost happy, though I heard 
No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 



78 /f. 

I could be glad, if, when the day is done, 
And all its cares and heartaches laid 
away, 
I could look westward to the hidden sun. 
And, with a heart full of sweet yearn- 
ings, say, 
" To-night I 'm nearer to my little one 
By just the travel of a single day." 

If I could know those little feet were shod 
In sandals wrought of light in better 
lands, 
And that the foot-prints of a tender God 
Ran side by side with his in golden 
sands, 
I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod, 
Knowing he was in wiser, safer hands. 

If he had died, as little children do, 

I would not stain the wee sock on my 
knee 
With bitter tears, nor kiss the empty shoe 



Tf. 79 

And cry, " Bring back my little boy 
to me ! " 
I could be patient, until patience grew 
. Into the gladness of Eternity. 

But oh, to know the feet once pure and 
white. 
The haunts of vice have boldly ven- 
tured in ! 
The hands that should have battled for 
the right 
Have been wrung crimson in the clasp 
of sin ! 
And should he knock at Heaven's gate 
to-night. 
My boy, alas, could scarce an entrance 
win! 




BUDGE, TOM, AND HONEST JOE. 

ITHIN it wanted just an hour of 
four; 
Without, the world in summer 
beauty lay, 
And wistfully beyond the school-room 
door 
Budge, Tom, and Joseph looked this 
hot June day. 

They knew that in the fields the clover 
spread 
A rosy carpet, velvety and sweet; 
They knew the path that to the old bridge 
led. 
Where children loved to sit and swing 
their feet. 



Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 8i 

They knew that cherries hung upon the 
trees, 
That trusting fishes swarmed the 
singing brook; 
The robins seemed to call them from the 
leaves, 
"Come out! Come out! and leave 
that hateful book ! " 

Budge dropped his drowsy head upon his 
breast, 
Tom watched a fly upon the window- 
pane, 
While Joseph, less lethargic than the rest, 
Made horrid faces at his sister Jane. 

The teacher saw the action with a smile. 
Their flushed young faces made her 
pitiful ; 
** Which will you do, go out and play 
awhile, 
Or stay with me," she said, '* till close 
of school? " 

6 



82 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 

Budge raised his sleepy head with glad 
surprise, 
(Just then a robin past the doorway 
flew!) 
He choked, grew rosy red, then dropped 
his eyes ; 
** I guess — I'd rather — stay in here — 
with you." 

** And you, my Tommy?" Should not 

Tommy dare 
To follow whither Spartan Budge had 

led? 
(The robin called, the sky was oh, so 

fair!) 

" I '11 stay with — Budge, I guess," he 
gasping said. 

But Joseph, with a look half bold, half 
shy. 
His brown toes twisting in an awkward 
way, 



Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. ^^ 

Said, with a slight contempt in tone and 
eye, 
** There ain't no use to talk, / V rather 
play." 

The teacher smiled ; " I fear, my little Joe, 
You only have been honest of the three. 

I take each at his word ; so you may go, 
While Budge and Tommy will remain 
with me." 

Poor little boys ! for such a sacrifice 
This was a fee they could not under- 
stand ; 
But when they said good night she kissed 
them thrice, 
And patted each round head with 
gentle hand. 

And were they wholly wrong, and Joe all 
right? 
I leave the answer for your tongues to 
fill. 



84 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 

Talk it all over by the fire to-night. 

And gather from the story what you 
will. 

But often do the world^s sweet flatteries 
Remind me of a day long years ago, 

Around which cluster funny memories 
Of three small boys, Budge, Tom, and 
honest Joe. 




IN MEMORY OF MR. CROWLEY OF 
CENTRAL PARK. 

O citizen of inferior name 

Has yielded up life's languid 
spark, 
But a chimpanzee of goodly fame, — 

Mr. Crowley of Central Park, 
Who from interior Africa came. 

Many a slave of the pen we see. 

Who scribbles away from dawn till dark, 

Nor earns the fame of this chimpanzee, 
Who could neither write nor make his 
mark, 

Paradoxical though it be. 

Many a player his lines may croon. 

Nor happily win, when his form lies 
stark, 



86 Mr. Crowley of Central Park. 

An editorial in the Tribune 

Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, 
Late trapeze player ! Poor dead buffoon ! 

And many a poacher upon life's joys, 
Bagging his spoils with a snarl and bark, 

To meaner purpose his life employs 

Than Mr. Crowley of Central Park; — 

Jester at court of the girls and boys. 

For a chimpanzee that can cheat dull care. 
And break a tooth of that hungry shark ; 

Who lightens the pack that the poor must 
bear 
Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, 

Is a better thing than the poacher there. 

No more, poor clown, will your pranks 
beguile 

Life's weary labor and ceaseless cark ; 
You will be set up in a life-like style, 

And hold levees in a crystal ark, 
With a very fixed and blase smile. 



Mr. Crowley of Central Park. 87 

Then, au revoir, with a kind regret ! 

Death interfered in your jolly lark, 
And many a child's dear eyes are wet 

For Mr. Crowley of Central Park, — 
The dearest monkey they ever met ! 




LININGS. 

AY, nay, dear child, I cannot let 
you slight 
Those inner stitches on your 
gown's fair hem 
Because, you say, they will be out of sight. 
And no stern critic will discover them. 

You do but build a most inviting hedge, 
Behind which falsehood and deceit may 
lurk. 

When you embroider fair the outer edge, 
And to the inner give no honest work. 

The silken chain of habit which you wear 
So lightly now upon your careless youth 
Will strengthen strand by strand ; then 
have a care ! 
Else it may throttle the sweet soul of 
truth. 



Linings. 89 

I hold that every stitch untruly set 

Weaves a soiled thread along your web 
of fate ; 
And each deceitful seam may prove a 
net 
To hurt and hinder, trust me, soon or 
late. 

Ah, dearest child, on everything you do 
Let the white seal of honor stamp its 
grace. 
Keep all your soul as clean with heaven's 
dew 
As the pink flower of your tender 
face. 

God makes no clumsy linings. Mark this 
bloom ! 
A " fairy's glove ; " and though it grieves 
my heart 
To send the smallest blossom to its 
tomb. 
We '11 tear this dainty little glove apart. 



90 Linings. 

In this and every flower that we behold, 
From crimson rose to pansy's purple 
vest, 
God sews the .velvet on the inner fold, 
And makes His linings fairer than the 
rest. 

Is it not perfect, from the slender stem 
To the brown dapples on the curling 
rim? 
God folds not carelessly the foxglove's 
hem; 
Then try, my little child, to be like 
Him. 




A PRAYER. 

H, long strong breaths of salt sea 
air, 
Oh, north winds rough and 
south winds fair. 
Toss all your rosy gifts about. 
And blow afar our weary doubt ! 

Milk-white foam roses, break for me 
From the green gardens of the sea, 
And bring thy fragrance, briny sweet, 
To wrap our love from brow to feet ! 

Bring rosy color to her mouth ; 
And from the warm and humid South 
Waft spices to the fevered breath, 
And antidote the spell of death ! 



92 A Prayer. 

And from thy green o'erflowing cup 
My hand shall dip a potion up, 
And in thy wine, to thee I '11 quaff 
With relish sweet and joyous laugh. 

Then bring to her the jewel health. 
For naught of all thy treasured wealth 
Is half so precious as this pearl ^ 
This drooping lily of a girl ! 




A LITTLE CYNIC. 

ANDELION and clover-top, 
Growing close together, 
Bobbed their bright young heads 
and talked 
In the sweet spring weather. 



Just across the little path 

In a grassy hollow, 
Buttercup was coquetting 

With a noisy swallow. 

*' Do you know," said Dandelion, 
Growing stiff and sullen, 

" That this minx, who used to rank 
With milk-weed and mullein, 

** Goes to parties, matinees. 
And all such queer places, 

And is quite the rage they say, 
With her airs and graces?" 



94 A Little Cynic. 

^' Well," laughed Clover, merrily, 

*' This will we agree on, 
That she wears her honors well 

For such a plebeian ! 

" I should quite disgrace myself — 

Spill my dew at dinner, 
When it comes to etiquette 

I 'm a dreadful sinner." 

" There is Madam Hollyhock," 

Still pursued the other, 
" Used to be on friendly terms 

With my great grandmother. 

** Then she wore a narrow skirt 

With a simple tunic ; 
Now she looks like some grand dame 

Just arrived from Munich ! 

" Then she leant upon the wall 

Or the lattice, may be, 
Now she rings the front door bell 

Just like any lady ! " 



A Little Cynic, 95 

" Why, you must be jealous, dear! " 

Clover said serenely ; 
" For her colors are superb, 

And her manners queenly. 

" Her quaint bodice of pale green 

Fits her to perfection. 
And a ruffle more or less 

Is no great objection.'* 

Just then Violet passed by 

In her soft, blue bonnet; 
Dandelion's face grew dark 

With the frown upon it. 

" See ! " she cried, " the whole, glad world 

Greets her as she passes, 
While our lives are hidden here 

In the weeds and grasses ! 

** How I hate her artless ways ! 

Hate her queer poke bonnet ! 
Hate her modest drooping face, 

With the soft smile on it ! 



96 A Little Cynic, 

'' ' Modest Violet,' indeed, 

When her very glory 
Is the meek humility 

Granted her in story ! 

•'Tell me, does God love her best? 

Count her blue gown fairer? 
Are her graces sweet to Him? 

Is her perfume rarer? " 

" Hush ! " said Clover, sweetly grave, 

*' God is God forever ; 
Doubt whatever else you will, 

But His goodness never ! 

" Violet gives lavishly 

Of her wealth of sweetness ; 

And the world requites the debt 
From its own completeness. 

" Do not wrong the God above 
And our brown earth-mother. 

Why not like your own life best, 
Sighing for no other .^ 



A Little Cynic, 97 

*' I would never change my lot 

With my wild bee lover 
For a world of violets ; 

No, not I ! " trilled Clover. 

'* Humph ! " that little cynic said 
With her bright eyes closing; 

And the rest I never heard, 
For she fell a-dozing. 




CHRISTMAS EVE. 

OD bless the little stockings 
All over the land to-night, 
Hung in the choicest corners 
In a glow of crimson light ! 
The tiny scarlet stocking, 

With a hole in heel and toe, 
Worn by wonderful journeys 
The darlings have had to go. 

And Heaven pity the children. 

Wherever their home may be, 
Who wake at the first gray dawning 

An empty stocking to see. 
Left in the faith of childhood 

Hanging against the wall. 
Just where the dazzling glory 

Of Santa's light will fall ! 



Christmas Eve, 99 

Alas, for the lonely mother 

Whose home is empty and still, 
Who has no scarlet stockings 

With childish toys to fill ! 
But sits in the deepening twilight, 

With her face against the pane. 
And grieves for the little baby 

Whose grave lies out in the rain ! 

O empty shoes and stockings. 

Forever laid aside ! 
The tangled, broken shoe-strings 

That will never more be tied ! 
O little graves, at the mercy 

Of the cold December rain ! 
The feet in their snow-white sandals, 

That never can trip again ! 

But happier they who slumber 
With marble at foot and head, 

Than the child who has no shelter, 
No raiment, nor food, nor bed. 



loo Christmas Eve. 

Yes ! Heaven help the living ! 

Children of want and pain, 
Knowing no fold nor pasture — 

Outside to-night in the rain ! 




JAMIE'S PRAYER. 

AY'S weary burdens are laid by; 
The world's great throbbing 
heart is still ; 
The stars flash out, the moon's fair face 
Rests on the peak of yonder hill. 

I hear the katydids contend 

The rustling maple leaves among; 

And leaning toward the apple boughs, 
I hear the robin brood her young. 

It is the hour when children's prayers 
Like perfume from the lilies rise, 

When all the angels cry, " Oh, list ! " 
And God makes silence in the skies. 

Two small brown hands, unsoiled by sin, 
Are folded softly on my knee, 

And over them my child's dear head 
Is bowed in sweet humility. 



I02 Jamie's Prayer* 

Hark to the little honest prayer ! 

*' Dear God, I am too tired to pray, 
And 't ain't as if you did n't know 

Just all I 've said and done to-day. 

" I know it takes a sight of love 

To make a boy's sins white, but then 

You don't go back on what you say. 
And I am not afraid — Amen." 




SHOCKING! 

HE smallest wheel in the rector's 
clock, 
The busiest worker in that queer 
mill, 
Grew tired of hearing the same tick-tock, 
So a Sunday morning it stood stock- 
still ! 
And what befell? Why, the rector good 
Arrived at his church full a half hour 
late. 
With a flying gown — as no parson 
should — 
While all the parish amazed did wait. 

With childish wonder our little Sue, 

Who never had been in a church before 

Saw, from her high-backed, oaken pew, 
The rector enter the chancel door. 



1 04 Shocking ! 

The wonder grew in the child's brown 
eyes, 
What she was thinking we could not tell, 
But a look of shame and of shocked sur- 
prise 
Over her face like a shadow fell. 



' What did you see at the church, my 
sweet? " 
Said grandmother, kissing the lifted chin, 
When at dinner the two did meet. 

''Oh, grandma! the preacher came 
flying in, 
So late that he did n't get on his clothes, 

And had just a great, long nightgown on ; 
He had to hurry so, I suppose ! " 

Said the innocent child, while her round 
eyes shone. 

" I guess he was drefful ashamed of hisself ; 

Would nt yott be, grandma, in his place? 
For he knelt right down on a little shelf. 

And held his two hands over his face ! 



Shocking! 105 

And, grandma, it was a minute before 
He would lift his head and read from 
his book. 
He '11 not wear his nightgown, I guess 
any more. 
Oh, dear!" and she sighed, " how queer 
it did look ! " 




THE SCARECROW.* 

HOREAU surveyed the ef^gy 
with scorn. 
" Well ! well ! " laughed he, " some 
urchin must have planned 
This man of straw, No crow in all the 
land 
Was ever frightened from a feast of corn 
By such a sentinel. No blackbird born 
Would hesitate to perch upon its hand. 
Crows are too knowing not to under- 
stand 
That this poor, stufifed-out thing, battered 
and worn, 
With dangling arms and shapeless, 
jointless pegs. 
Was never made by God." Thoreau 
paused here 

* A true anecdote of Thoreau. 



The Scarecrow. 107 

In his wise dissertation upon crows ; 
For lo ! the scarecrow moved its "joint- 
less " legs 
And walked away to a gray farmhouse 
near. 
That was a funny blunder of Thoreau's ! 



IF WE KNEW. 




F we knew the baby fingers 

Pressed against the window- 
pane 
Would be cold and stifif to-morrow — 

Never trouble us again ; 
Would the bright eyes of our darling 

Catch the frown upon our brow? 
Would the prints of rosy fingers 
Vex us then as they do now? 

Ah, these little ice-cold fingers, 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track ! 
How these little hands remind us, 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns — but roses — 

For our reaping by and by ! 



If We knew. 109 

Strange we never prize the music 

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ; 
Strange that we should slight the violets 

Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
Strange that summer skies and sunshine 

Never seem one-half so fair 
As when winter's snowy pinions 

Shake their white down in the air ! 

Lips from which the seal of silence 

None but God can roll away, 
Never blossomed in such beauty 

As adorns the mouth to-day; 
And sweet words that freight our memory 

With their beautiful perfume, 
Come to us in sweeter accents 

Through the portals of the tomb. 

Let us gather up the sunbeams 

Lying all around our path ; 
Let us keep the wheat and roses, 

Casting out the thorns and chaff; 



no If We knew. 

Let us find our sweetest comfort 
In the blessings of to-day ; 

With a patient hand removing 
All the briars from our way. 




A LITTLE ROBBER. 

LITTLE robber whom I know 
Came to my house nine years 
ago, 

And, with the most provoking ease, 
Found out my casket and my keys, 
And of the treasures I possessed 
Purloined the dearest and the best. 
The way this robber came to me 
Is wrapped in sweetest mystery ; 
But the bewitching Httle thief. 
Without remorse or touch of grief, 
First stole, in many a pretty way, 
Three times eight jewels every day; 
Then, with his soft and rosy hands. 
He pulled down all my strong commands. 
The cherished plan, the ripened thought. 
By years of rich experience bought. 
My favorite opinions, too. 
He into wildest chaos threw. 



112 A Little Rohher. 

Some prim old maxims, quaintly wrought 
With silver thread and pious thought, 
By long. consent had grown to be 
Proud souvenirs of ancestry ; 
These, by mere love of mischief led, 
He picked to pieces thread by thread, 
Until I feared my grandma's ghost 
Would chain me to a whipping-post ! 
When I reproached, his wondrous eyes 
Took on such look of grieved surprise, 
I could but say, " Take what you will. 
Your plunderings continue still; 
Purloin my time, my heart, my pelf, 
Take everything except — yourself! 
For what would all earth's treasures be 
Without your blessed company?" 

And so, throughout the years and days, 
Content this young marauder stays. 
To be my comfort and my joy. 
His name ? Why, he 's my little boy ! 



"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO 
COME UNTO ME." 




T was long years ago that He 
uttered 
This message, so tender and 
sweet, 
As women were crowding about Him 
And laying their babes at His feet ; 
He looked, with a gentle compassion, 

On the mothers in old Galilee, 
While He comforted them with this saying, 
" Let the little ones come unto me." 

From over the hills of Judea, 

Down through the long line of the years, 
That Voice of ineffable sweetness 

Still comforts the mother's sad tears. 
O Heart that has bled for our sorrows ! 

O Voice that can quiet the sea ! 
Come often to me with Thy whisper : 

** Let the little ones come unto me ! " 
8 



114 ** Suffer Little Children," 

O mothers, whose children are lying 

Out under the snow and the rain, 
Let the beautiful words of the Master, 

Give ease to your sorrow and pain ! 
He holds their bright heads on His bosom, 

He gathers them close to His knee ; 
And tenderly still He is saying, 

'* Let the little ones come unto me ! " 




"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD 
THEM." 

HE land is wondrous fair," the 
angel said. 
" Its sapphire skies are wrought 
with tints of gold ; 
Its jewelled gates admit nor heat nor 
cold ; 
And all along the way that you shall 

tread 
A perfume marvellously sweet is shed 
From hlies that eternally unfold." 

The lovely woman raised her timid face, 
And to the messenger of death she 

spoke : 
** I know that human sight can not 

invoke 



ii6 "A Little Child shall lead Them," 

A vision of such fair, surpassing grace, 
As those fair mansions in the heavenly- 
place, 
But life and I have never friendship 
broke. 

" Therefore I fain would stay," she pleaded 
low. 
The angel's face wore nothing of 

command ; 
He smiling said, " Behold, unarmed I 
stand ! 
I left behind my arrows and my bow. 
I shall not force you, lovely one, to go ; 
I only wait till you shall clasp my 
hand. 

" But even now your eyes are wet with 
tears : 
Come where a holy hand will wipe them 

dry ! 
Oh, be my bride, my own beloved ! 
and I 



"A Little Child shall lead Them." 117 

Will kiss away your doubtings and your 

fears, 
And lead you gently through the eternal 

years, 
And prove a love that will not change 

or die!" 

The woman shrank from his caressing hand. 
" But life hath loyal love as well," she 

cried ; 
**A trusting heart would break of me 
denied ; 
A faithful foot would track me to your 

land. 
And at the gates of pearl would waiting 
stand. 
This life is fair and sweet to me," she 
sighed. 

** The swaying reed hath not a frailer grace 
Than human love. It will not mourn 

you long; 
In Heaven your voice is needed in the 

song. 



ii8 '*A Little Child shall lead Them.** 

Through countless ages God has kept your 

place. 
Then, in my bosom hide your weeping 

face, 
And let me bear you to the waiting 

throng." 

" Nay, nay, sweet angel ! Spare me this 
alarm ; 
For I am timid of the lonesome way. 
A voice I love is begging me to stay ! 
A precious hand is clinging to my arm, — 
A hand that never brought me pain or 
harm ! 
Oh, leave me now» and come another 
day!" 

The angel drew her close and whispered 

sweet, 
" Dear Heart ! the streets are fair with 

children there, 
God's sunlight hides its kisses in their 

hair, 



"A Little Child shall lead Them." 119 

And everywhere in Heaven- a child you 

meet." 
The woman clasped his hand, and toward 

the street 
So bright with children, smiling went 

the pair. 




OUR BOBBY WAS PINCHING THE 
KITTEN. 

UR Bobby was pinching the kitten, 
And kicking his primer about, 
And pulling a beetle to pieces, 
His face all awry in a pout; 
His mother, who, patient and loving, 

Could coax her dear Bobby no more, 
Now reached for the whip on the mantel — 
And looked at her boy on the floor. 

But grandma, with soft, muslin kerchief 

Pinned over her warm, loving breast. 
Where ten little heads had been pillowed 

And rocked into childhood's sweet rest. 
Looked up from the little wool stocking 

Just finished and laid on her knee, 
And said, " Dear, you '11 ruin his temper, 

You had far better let the child be. 



Our Bobby was pinching the Kitten. 



121 



" Don't whip him — his father before him 

Was punished and shut in the dark, 
And stood on one foot in the corner, 

And disciplined up to the mark; 
We gave him no credit for honor. 

But watched him as spiders watch flies. 
I wonder that it did n't teach him 

To practise deceit and tell lies. 

" We called it affection and duty — 

God knows we were fond of the boy — 
But I guess his remembrance of child- 
hood 

Is not quite a well-spring of joy. 
So put up that willow whip, daughter. 

And try little Bobby once more. 
You see he 's forgotten his passion, 

And lies half asleep on the floor." 

Then grandmother lifted her darling, 
And patted his head on her breast. 

And sang in a tremulous treble. 
Till all Bobby's woes were at rest. 



122 



Our Bobby was pinching the Kitten. 



And so the wee whip, bright and yellow, 
Was laid on the mantel again — 

And that is the way that the grandmas 
Spoil nine little boys out of ten. 



HE KNOWS BEST. 




F I could utter some new magic 
word 
To lull the pain in one poor 
troubled soul ; 
Or when Bethesda s shining pool is stirred 
Could lift some cripple in and make 
him whole ; 

If I could set some bruised and tired feet 
Where they could henceforth tread a 
smoother way, 
I would not ask a gift more fair and 
sweet, 
To bless me on this happy Christmas 
day. 

Ah, foolish heart, be still ! Nor any 
more 
Distrust the tenderness that is divine ! 



124 ^<^ knows best. 

He knows wherever feet are bruised and 
sore, 
And gives them pity, gentler far than 
thine. 

Our keenest sorrow may be sent to bring 
The dearest guest our life has ever 
known, — 

Sweet patience, who in gathering the sting 
From other's lives forgets about her own. 

And there are old sweet words of truth 
and love, 

As full of meaning as a mother's kiss, 
Which fall like benedictions from above, 

And never weary in a world like this. 

Bethesda's pool is nearer than we think, 

It springs wherever there are tired feet; 
The gift you crave lies trembling on its 
brink, 
You still may make your Christmas day 
complete ! 



He knows best, 125 

And though it may be hard to understand 

The way through which He leads your 

life and mine, 

May we not safely trust the gracious hand 

That brings to us so good a Christmas 

time? 



COMFORT. 




F I could lay my hand upon the 
heart 
That moulders underneath the 
church-yard snows, 
And bid the sleeping pulses wake and start, 
And to the faded lips restore the rose ; 

If I could lead the precious child you love 
With shrinking footsteps to his earthly 
place ; 

If I could bring him from the fold above, 
The tangled paths of life again to trace; 

Say ! would you bid him lay his glory by 
That you might hold him to your 
troubled breast? 
And would your yearning mother-heart 
deny 
The good to him that you might thus 
be blest? 



Comfort. 127 

I know your answer ! Tenderly enough 
Has God's sweet mercy through His 
smiting shone. 
Young feet are tender, and the way is 
rough ; 
Be glad that you can tread the thorns 
alone ! 

It is not long. The way is short between, 
And we are near the gates of pearl and 
gold; 
And yonder rise the hills of living green, 
Where children never die, nor yet grow 
old! 

And when the storms shall beat, and rains 
shall fall, 
And when you faint beneath the sun's 
fierce ray, 
O friend be glad ! and sing above it all, 
** My child is safe from all these ills 
to-day ! " 




A SUBPOENA. 

OISTEROUS Wind! Prince 
Weather's clown ! 
You have raised such a breeze 
in Blossom-town, 
That the undersigned bid you appear 
And answer the charges mentioned here. 

Robin is there quite red in the breast 
With rage, at the loss of a brand-new nest. 

Bumble-bee draggled from sting to chin 
Crawls from the pool you tumbled him in. 

Violet looks so wicked and sly 

With her tattered bonnet blown all awry ! 

Hyacinth, blue, and with head cast down, 
Has a breadth torn out of her bell-shaped 
gown. 



A Subpoena. 129 

Butterfly holds up a crippled wing; — 
(How could you spoil such a dainty thing?) 

Some sweet young buds that were coming 

out 
Fetchingly gowned for their opening rout, 

You whirled away to a dance of your own 
With never a sign of a chaperone ! 

And worst of all, in your headlong race 
You drew your switches across the face 

Of that pet of the forest, Anemone, 
Bravest and frailest of flowers that be. 

Then haste, rude Jester ! Prince Weather's 

clown ! 
By the air-line route to Blossom-town. 
For, I give you warning, there *s much 

ado 
In the circles there, on account of you. 



.r^iftz^ . ^.- rii^v^ 



D:C 30 1901 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

015 762 995J^|L 



